


Coda

by Jane D Ankh-Veos (CTL)



Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar, Sunless Skies
Genre: Ambition: Heart's Desire (Fallen London), Drama, Fluff, Gen, Happy Ending, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-18 11:49:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29608995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CTL/pseuds/Jane%20D%20Ankh-Veos
Summary: So that was the end. Or only the beginning?
Relationships: Player (Fallen London)/The Manager of the Royal Bethlehem
Comments: 4
Kudos: 6





	Coda

**Author's Note:**

> Post–Heart’s Desire. Mixed with one of Destinies and a bit of Light Fingers.
> 
> In order to make it more universal, I didn’t plan to include the pairing, but readers of the russian version persuaded me to keep it. Well...
> 
> Русская версия: https://ficbook.net/readfic/10178038

It’s good to celebrate an opening with a premiere, but the renovated Alexandrian broke with tradition, starting its new life with an opera which, like itself, has already inspired London once.

"Maestro Bagley would like to say a few words."

"Yes. I want to thank my sister. And my... co-author."

The applause rang out immediately and eagerly. Virginia, pretending to happily embrace the composer with one hand, firmly led him to the backstage.

"I haven’t finished," he whispered.

"Quite enough. Why must I be here at all?"

"You’re the Mayor, and this is a big event for the city."

In fact, Tristram — who was uncomfortably out of practice of wearing a tailcoat — was even glad that she saved him from having to somehow end his speech. And yet...

"I assumed that the philanthropist who paid for the restoration would come to the opening," he explained. "I was going to invite them onstage too. For a handshake, at least. So that the public would know their name. Because this theatre means so much to me."

"Although you’re back to sanity, and some call you a genius, you’re still a fool, Mr. Bagley," Virginia said, pressing a very sharp nail hidden in a satin glove to his chest. "Think again. Who might be so wealthy and unpredictable to fully compensate the costs of renovating a building of no profit to anyone? Who has done it before? And who knows perfectly well what is dear to you?"

Tristram froze.

"But... but... why? Wait a minute... so it was he who told the Gambler about the opera and encouraged them to finish it... making my dream come true. The very one because of which I lost to him. Then that’s why in Veilgarden he stuck to me all evening, making sure that I’ll come, stay and see it! And this I also owe to the jailer of my mind..."

"Who still expects that you’ll forgive him," the deviless hinted, pointing with an elegant wave of her hand to the splendour of the theatre, restored from the ruins like Tristram himself. "If humans saw souls as we do, then you, maestro, would understand that none of the players wished each other harm. It’s the temptation of gambling and the utter madness you call love and hope that are destroying the likes of you two and everyone unlucky to be around. And it’s exactly what the Bazaar wants when it makes the rules."

Chewing on his moustache nervously, he interrupted:

"Perhaps. But if he was present at the premiere, where is that old villain now?.."

***

_"I’m sorry."_

_Who was meant to hear it instead of me?_

_The former lover whom you deprived of mercy of death?_  
_The recent rival whom you relieved of burden of sanity?_

_One hated you at the height of your kindness._  
_Another embraced you at the height of your malice._

_I’ve seen both with my own eyes. So what would it change then?_

_Or was it addressed to that one from millenia-old half-eroded murals — still in white, not black; still in tears, not hiding behind a fake smile; still naively believing that the doomed can be saved with love, not with insidious power that seeps like poison into every street I take?.._

_I don’t know. But these simple words pierce my heart deeper than a sword, faster than an arrow. They reach where the claws of fear could not._

_So we both have lost._

_I’m sorry._

***

Waking up, the Gambler looked around cautiously. No, it wasn’t their room. Wrong, maddeningly vaguely wrong walls still surrounded them with the sinister scarlet opulence of the Hotel.

But the illusion had to vanish by now! Haunting visions have already receded. And there was no usual shadow of the Merry Gentleman beside their bed...

He was _in._

"Excuse me?.." the Gambler said tentatively.

He turned to the other side, pulling the blanket all to himself.

"You know what wise men say: don’t awaken the ancient evil. I’ve told you I can’t get enough sleep, haven’t I?"

Recent days took their toll. The Gambler’s head felt like it was drilled from multiple angles and filled with molten lead.

"Did I win?" they asked with a faint hope, trying to recall the course of events.

"Several times overnight," the Manager muttered into the pillow. The sharp contrast of its starched whiteness to dark hair and bronze skin only fueled this migraine.

Memories surfaced like a drowned corpse from a river. With a wine glass in his left hand and a cigarette holder in his right, as if with an orb and a sceptre, the Priest-King of the First City paced around the room in a dressing gown, explaining in detail the almost-forgotten ingenious strategies and impatiently sweeping aside with his foot the card combinations that were laid out right on the floor. Then they were talking for who knows how long about ancient cities, and nostalgic inspiration softened the bitterness. Because instead of a cold diamond, a living heart was burning in the immortal’s chest, so close, and that slip of the tongue in the heat of confrontation — a call to a beloved one instead of an enemy — was still fresh on his lips...

In games with fate something always goes wrong.

"I’ve revealed to you my tricks and techniques, despite knowing that you will be able to use them against me if we clash again. I’ve given you my time, despite that, you understand, it’s never free when managing a full mental asylum." At last, he turned to the Gambler. Black coals of his eyes smouldered with an angry gold-and-red flame, reflecting the room. "And after all of this, you confessed that you’ll prefer to give up and quit if victory turns out to be not what you really desire. Wanted only to gloat a little longer, reveling in triumph over a powerful adversary, didn’t you?"

"I’m grateful that you’ve agreed to train me, I truly am," they sighed. "It’s just... not about the game."

 _"...Dr. Schlomo said that a person on the brink of despair must be given an opportunity to be willingly occupied with something. To feel needed. At least to find an attentive listener."_ It nearly slipped out. Moreover, almost with _"a friend"._ What else if there were no more secrets, dreams, passions and weaknesses hidden from each other?

"You’re right." The spark of vengeful frustration faded again to weary melancholy. "I’d quit too if I had other hope. There must be alternatives. After all, December plans an expedition to the Mountain of Light..."

He fell silent, having realized that it was giving out his connections with the Calendar Council.

"Tell the Bishop!" it dawned on the Gambler. "His desire is there as well. They should join forces with the Dilmun Club!"

"Sounds reasonable. We could achieve more as allies than separately as rivals who only waste efforts on trying to defeat each other..."

"Thank goodness, for once the master of madness has a bit of sensible logic."

"Coming from someone who brought _chess_ to a card game!"

A white cat jumped onto the bed, happily treading on the owner’s chest and making it clear that he won’t have a chance to sleep longer.

"And me? Will you take me with you? I have a ship now! And maps. And... we don’t have to be enemies anymore, too, do we?.."

The Gambler extended a hand. The cat sniffed it with careful curiosity and rubbed against it, purring.

A ghost of a familiar smile crossed the Manager’s face. Eight fingers grasped theirs in silent agreement.

***

_Dreams call him to luxury, comfort and peace. To where he will have a safe roof over his head..._

_But he brushes them aside. He is the king of roofs, and won’t swap them for just one. He wraps himself in rags from the howling cold draught, crushes a flea and closes his eyes again._

_Dreams call him to where he should be, like everybody who lost oneself. Where all worries and sorrows will be taken away._

_But he would never surrender the last thing that’s left. Freedom. He will resist to the end._

_One day the dreams cease. Maybe the urchins’ amulets truly work. Maybe the guileful siren gets bored of the same song over and over. Or maybe they expect him to lower his guard before returning. After all, the Hotel doesn’t let go that easily of those who already belong to it._

_But he even misses them a little. They reminded of something important. If only he could remember what..._

***

False-stars above: the strange shimmering glow, changing positions by unknown whims. Street lamps of London below: dim lights in the fog. Salty chill from the underground sea, breaking through the smoke of factories. And a dizzying height, exceeded solely by the spires of the Bazaar.

"For what’s left in the past, Your Majesty."

"For what awaits in the future, Your Majesty."

Bottles clinked. Sending a maid for glasses would disturb their fragile tête-à-tête.

"I still don’t trust you. How can I trust someone who doesn’t get drunk after more wine than me?" Tristram grumbled half-coherently.

Bats were rushing past overhead. The view of the burning Alexandrian was excellent, and it didn’t even matter to him anymore whether it was the Correspondence or the Ministry that ensured it.

"I always used to say to our lads: when hitting the bottle, look at the Hotel. As soon as the walls begin to bend at impossible angles or extra floors begin to appear, it’s time to stop," he added. "So, the question is, how am I supposed to control myself when I can’t see it from here, hmm?"

"You’ll miss your subjects, won’t you?"

"I... I’m not going to leave them. That’s what I decided. Why should I return to the Court full of sycophants and hypocrites? What was its admiration worth if it was forgotten so soon? I am the king of thieves, and I’ll stay with them. We don’t need to wait for anyone’s handouts when we can rob the Masters themselves!"

"I see. Which one first?" The Manager smirked skeptically.

"Which one next, you mean," Tristram winked at him. "By the way, I have something for you from their vaults. A little birdie told me that you like shiny stones..."

He reached into inner pockets. A glow lit up the gloom: a radiant treasure in his hand. As if he, sitting here on the Hotel’s roof, took a star from the false-sky.

A shard of the Mountain of Light. An unclaimed reward to someone who refused to give an innocent child to Mr. Fires. Though not as large as a cow, contrary to rumours. Merely the size of a kitten... or a human heart.

The Manager’s voice wavered:

"What do you want for it? Immortality? My dear uncle will brew the Hesperidean Cider for you! Wealth? I’ll drown you in diamonds! Fame? I’ll engrave your music into every Londoner’s mind! Just tell me!"

Tristram smiled sadly:

"Like anyone, I won’t pretend that I don’t care about this. But no, there was enough of deals both for you and me. I’ll take only one thing: your word that you will preserve our story for centuries to come. As a warning... or inspiration."

***

_Surely you know, Your Grace: the Garden is no Eden. Nothing more than one of the countless local anomalies._

_Any happiness, it seems, is an anomaly._

_Let them say that the children of the Thief-of-Faces have no souls._  
_Let them say that there are no forces of good higher than the cruel incandescent demiurges of the indifferent cold skies._  
_In the eyes of a monster I see an unbearably human longing for the lost paradise — so how can I not believe otherwise?_

_But no, I don’t believe._  
_I know._

***

The light of the Mountain; so bright, so close. Members of the expedition didn’t dare to take off the shaded goggles. But even through them he felt the keen gaze of the Bishop:

"Are you sure? I’d stay in the Garden myself, but no. Not yet. The temptation is too strong, but first I must open the way for my brothers and sisters as well. Of course, maybe the sacred land will accept you more readily than us, the exiles, and even than anyone — after all, it was not meant for humanity... But does truly nothing keep you here now?"

Gregory’s sign language and eloquent facial expressions were clear: nothing. Cora will be happier without him. London left the Neath. And the game is over.

"You’re my brother too. Within the Church. And on this path, this timeless journey that had begun long before we traveled here," the Bishop said after a moment of pensive silence. "Sometimes I was close to losing all hope of returning. But thanks to you... everyone of you..."

He glanced around the camp, lost in feelings too complex to be able to finish putting them into words.

"And where’s Virginia?" he noticed. "She never misses an expedition, right?"

Hell’s envoys stuck together, not wishing to mingle with neither snuffers nor the Council’s followers.

"Left with one of December’s people," answered a devil with a wry smirk and a nod towards the latter’s tents. "She didn’t need eternal life or glory fraught with unwanted attention. She sought asylum. And she said nothing except that she found what she was looking for. We never saw her again. Vanished overnight."

...As it has always been with those who dealt with their mutual acquaintance.

***

_Who is a Gambler without a game? Like a captain without the sea._

_It stayed below. Along with all that I lived and fought for. I couldn’t take anything with me except for my dreams — old and new ones._

_What would any granted wishes be worth now? Life changes unpredictably. And directions of the heart’s compass change too._

_But who is a captain without the sea? Like a Gambler without a game..._

_"Excuse me; it seems to be for you."_

_'For the invaluable assistance in the Southern expedition'. A paper full of sigils and seals: the Dilmun Club, the Bazaar, the Brass Embassy. Among the signatures for the initiative: the Bagleys. Date: May. Spilled ink and a clumsy paw print._

_A Moloch-Class Liner, the best of the best. Gleaming with metal, smoking with hellish heat. Waiting for its captain._

***

Interstellar coldness covered the locomotive with rime, and steam from the pipes left a long visible trail in its wake.

"Give the status."

"All clear ahead, cap’n."

"Got it. Come after dinner, the crew decided to stay for cards."

"Hold on... Something on the radar..."

It was moving nearby. Obviously intentionally. Pursuing. Alive.

"Judging by the wings, it’s a Curator," a report came from the periscope. "Should we ready the guns?"

"Not yet..."

The creature didn’t seem to be going to attack. It accompanied the train, overtaking, circling, enjoying the flight. And then vanished into the night sky as swiftly as it appeared.

"Strange. They behave like this when they recognize each other," the first officer said. "Must be an omen of good luck!"

But the captain only smiled:

"Fuck luck."

***

_In my dreams I see an amber-eyed fiery-haired deviless — like a spark from the fires of the besieged Fourth City — in labyrinths of the Forgotten Quarter where we once met._

_"Care to keep me company?" she winks slyly. "I am in safety, but sometimes I miss the old days full of risk and thrill. You were a worthy opponent. In everything."_

_Together we walk among the ruins. So little remains of the past. Time is a worse marauder than treasure hunters. But she manages to find a piece of a clay brick with a carved eye — a sure sign of the ancient legacy of the First. For once, she voluntarily concedes this little discovery to me._

_When I wake up, it lies on the bedside table and watches._

_Something — or someone — is calling me through these dreams. Just like before._

***

The captain took off the boots. Sand was warm despite having never seen sunlight, and shimmered with specks of diamond dust.

They leaned back. So this is what the Bishop felt when he was lying on the emerald grass of the Garden...

In front of the crew they had to maintain the role of a tough and intrepid leader. Nobody knew that in nightmares they were still plagued by childhood fears. And by visions of subordinates who died through their fault, whom they begged for forgiveness in tears. The sea and the sky condone no weakness. But here they could be themselves: the Last City knew them to the core and accepted them as they were. 

"...Although your walls are still _wrong_."

_"Well, no one is perfect."_

Was it only imagination, or the eyes in them were now alive?..

"I’m tired," the captain confessed. "So much that it seems to me that you’re watching me again. So much that it seems that I hear you. No wonder; who else would be the voice of my madness?.."

_"Not even sure if I’m offended or flattered. No other assumptions? At all?"_

"The horrors and dangers of these travels inevitably affect the mind sooner or later. But at least here I can take a rest from them..."

_"Of course. And not merely that. Anything for my dear guest! Anything your heart desires."_

"I don’t know what it does. Not anymore. I’ve been to so many fantastic places, but always wanted to go somewhere else. I’ve discovered extraordinary treasures, but they didn’t satisfy or console me. I was looking for happiness in the sky, beyond the horizon, on earth and underground — everywhere... Tell me, why did I need that game at all if I have no idea what I want?.."

_"There’s only one thing I can tell. The same as I said to you long ago..."_

The breeze, gentle as breath, carried to them the scent of cedars, temple incense and flowers — from a real garden. Not of nightmares. Of a dream come true.

_"...Welcome home."_


End file.
